I am the Shadow on the Moon at Night
by JNSx7
Summary: Oogie Boogie wasn't always the bogeyman. (Cover art by JKendall.)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes: I've had this idea in my head for quite some time. Enjoy my newest story.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own "Nightmare Before Christmas". It belongs to Touchstone Pictures (Disney), directed by Henry Selick, and is based from the story of Tim Burton.**

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**I am the Shadow on the Moon at Night**

**Chapter One: Alone**

1935, North America:

She ran for her life in the dark forest. Each breath she took felt like needles in her lungs, sweat and tears dripped down her face, the dry leaves crunching beneath her bleeding feet were excruciating, but she didn't care, she just ran.

The outside was cold and dark, the only source of light that she had was the full moon, but that only made the trees look like they were reaching out to grab her, but she pressed on, knowing that the real problem was somewhere behind her. She didn't know where she was going, and she didn't care, she just wanted to get away. She jumped over what appeared to be a tree stump protruding from the ground, but her dress got caught and she fell on her face with a hard thud. The leaves of which she fell on badly scratched her face, but she quickly got up and continued to run in the unknown darkness; toward what she hoped was salvation.

After what seemed like forever, she finally stopped running. Using her hand to lean against a tree, she threw up and didn't stop heaving until there were no more contents in her stomach.

Slowly straightening herself up she slowly scanned the area around her... Nothing. Not a sound. She looked around her surroundings again... Nobody, just her. All she saw was her messy blonde hair in front of her face.

She took a deep breath then heaved a huge sigh of relief as she sat down with a loud thump and a crunch from the leaves. She escaped, and that is all that mattered. She closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath and then slowly exhaled, trying to calm herself.

"Molly." She heard a low voice say. It wasn't loud, but to Molly Hatch, it was a dagger to the heart. Molly kept her eyes closed, telling herself that she was imagining things, that it was just the wind playing tricks on her... but she had to make sure.

Molly didn't want to look, like how a child doesn't want to look under their bed, but Molly told herself that she had to make sure. So she mustered up some courage and slowly opened her eyes.

She saw nothing but her hair. Relief flowed through her. She _did_ tell herself that she was only imagining things. She started to laugh a hysterically. It was a laugh of relief and accomplishment. She continued to laugh... and laugh... and laugh... until a strong grip started choking her. She felt herself being lifted by her neck. Through blurry eyes she could see the silhouette of a big man, her attacker and probably soon, her executioner.

Molly couldn't breathe, the man's powerful grip was cutting off oxygen to her burning lungs. She tried to escape from the man's grasp, digging her nails into her attacker's hand, but that only made the attacker laugh at Molly's failing attempt.

The man lifted something shiny and long from his other hand. Molly's eyes grew wide upon realizing what it was: it was an axe. The attacker used the tip of the axe to move Molly's hair out of her eyes, wanting her to see it all. The man lifted the axe high above his head. Molly couldn't look away as the axe was brought down.

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The man laughed as he compacted the dirt into the new grave; the darkness of the night concealing the action. Then the man covered the fresh dirt with leaves and twigs, making it look like the rest of the ground. Once that was done, he turned away from the grave and walked away with a satisfied grin.

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February 27th, 3:00 PM, 1914, Western United States of America:

_Nobody loved him_. That was the awful truth. No one _liked_ him. No one wanted to be _near_ him. No one wanted to _talk_ to him. His _teachers_ hated him. His _mother_ didn't even want him. _Nobody wanted to help him._

He was just a little boy, a little boy crying in the forest, his knees tucked up to his face, wet from his tears. He had enough of this! Why won't anyone like him? What has he done to deserve this?!

The little boy cried with silence, and he was so alone.

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**Author's Notes: Thanks for reading. Short, I know, but this is what is known as a hook. This story will be written with his childhood and his adulthood written together; it gives the reader a feeling of curiosity.**

**Please review, my friend.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: Marks**

1935, Halloween Town:

"Oogie, I take it that the kill was a success." A quiet, high-pitched voice said to a bald man - the killer - in a cavern.

"Haha. Sure was!" The bald man, Oogie, proudly said. Oogie was in a familiar dark cavern that he was so fond of since he was young. The cave was full of invertebrates of every sort; crawling all over the walls and floor. Over the years, Oogie put up lanterns and candles throughout the cavern so he could see, but his body was still in darkness; the only thing visible from the light of a lantern was Oogie's left arm which was laying on a smooth rock surface. Oogie was taking off stitches from his arm that ran from his wrist to the anterior of his elbow joint. "You should have seen it! Her face was all red from trying to run from me! Ha! It was hilarious watching her life leave her eyes!

"Then guess what happened!" Oogie gave the voice no time to guess. "I buried the entire corpse under ground! Ha! Just thinking about how people will be searching for her for days but never finding a _trace_ of her just makes me chuckle! Ha!"

"Did you at least take some of Molly Hatch's organs for your own use?"

"No." Oogie said plainly. His voice changed from sadistic to irritation. "I'm _fine_. Besides, I'm not letting any part of that creature-" Before Oogie could finish his sentence, he pulled the last of the stitches from his left arm. Instantly, the skin from where his stitches were peeled away, revealing rotting flesh _infested_ with small invertebrates.

"Your flesh says otherwise." The voice said. "You are rotting, Oogie. If you don't get new parts soon, you will become nothing but invertebrates. I am surprised you even had the strength to kill."

"Well I _did_." Oogie spat, now annoyed with the voice. Oogie picked up the thread and needle next to him then started to stitch his arm back up. "I survived _this_ long with this condition, even with the economic crisis. I'll just get someone else's organs to replace mine."

"Your over-confidence will someday be your downfall."

"Don't count on it." Oogie spat, quickly finishing stitching his arm. "No one can kill me. No one can even hide from me." He said while tucking the needle and thread in his pant pocket.

Oogie then went to a rope that hung from the cavern's ceiling, the rope illuminated from the moonlight through the cavern's skylight. Oogie grabbed the rope, about to climb up.

"_I_ can hide from you." The voice said confidently. Oogie stopped. "I've been hiding all these years. You don't even know what I look like."

Oogie was now illuminated himself, his back facing the majority of the cave. He slowly turned around, facing what he supposed was the direction of the voice. As he turned, his face became visible. Oogie's face was covered in black stitches. Actually, his whole body was covered in black stitches. They ran from his nose to the right edge of his mouth; from his shoulder to his jaw; from the back of his head to his left eye. All over him were black stitches.

Oogie, in a strong voice, said to the voice, "_No one_ can hide from me."

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March 19th, 4:30 PM, 1914, Western United States of America:

The little boy walked home from school again. Even though the road was mainly dirt, it had large rocks at random places, so it was too hard for automobiles or horse-drawn carriages to drive on, so the little boy had to walk all the way home with a limp and a black-eye, which he received from school that day.

The little boy was seven years old, but no one bothered to keep track. The boy was pale, with light brown hair that stretched so long it covered up a third of his brown eyes; it has been a long time since he had his hair cut. The boy was in blue overalls and wearing a white, long-sleeved shirt, making the hot weather that much more unbearable.

After a long and exhausting journey, the little boy finally got to his house. There was nothing special about it. It was small, made of wood, and was built many years ago. But it was quiet - for an obvious reason: no one lived nearby. Why should they? It was hot. It was dry. It was surrounded by dirt and rocks. But somehow, the house made it through the years.

The little boy climbed the small, brown, wooden stairs with each step sending searing pain up his right leg. But eventually, the boy made it up to the front porch, which was made of the same wood the stairs were. The boy reached the wooden green door, opened it, then closed it behind him as he entered.

"Truman Bobi Igebor!" His mother yelled, clearly angry at Truman. "_Where_ have you been?!"

"Sorry, Mother." Truman said quietly, trying to hide the black-eye by not looking directly at his mother.

"Were you gambling again? You know you're too young for such things! You could be killed if you gamble with the wrong people!"

"I know. I know." Truman said glumly. _Not that you would care_. Truman thought.

"Go to your room and do your homework!" She yelled, pointing behind her where Truman's room was.

"Yes mother." Truman walked toward his room, but when he passed his mother, she slapped him harshly in the back of the head, but Truman kept walking.

When Truman got to his room, he made sure that his door was closed. He put his school supplies on the hard bed, then he crumbled to the floor, curling up into a ball.

Truman cried a soundless cry, letting tears run from his face and drip onto the hard floor. After a while of this, Truman rolled up his left sleeve, revealing thin scar marks on his arm. He thought about finishing the job so many times before - it would be so easy to go just a little bit deeper - but for some reason, Truman could never finish what he started. The closest he ever gotten was cutting himself from his wrist to the anterior of his elbow, but it wasn't deep enough.

He wiped away the tears from his eyes, got off of the hard, wooden floor, then sat down to do his homework which he never finished.

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**A/N: 1. When imagining the voice, it's the voice from the beginning song that says, "I am the who when you call, 'Who's there?' I am the wind blowing through your hair." 2. Invertebrates are insects. 3. Anterior means, "nearer the front".**

**Reviews are appreciated. Thanks friends!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: Green Eyes**

April 1914, Western U.S.A.:

Truman despised school. He hated going there. He hated homework, the teachers, his classmates, the long walk there. But his mother was no better, and school got him away from her, so he went.

Truman listened, learned, studied, but he was never good at school. Maybe that's why all of his classmates picked on him. Or perhaps it was because he was quiet. Or it could be that he was different. Like how unlike the rest of his classmates who liked to talk with each other about some great rock in Washington D.C., or about some airplane that flew really far, or a film that was actually in color, or this sportsman, Baby Runt, or something. Truman, however, liked crickets and spiders and catching rabbits and climbing trees and gambling near a dirt road; those kinds of unusual sort of stuff. But they weren't unusual to Truman. Truman only saw it as having fun. But others did not.

Not long after school, Truman was walking on the dirt path that lead to his house, but he got no more than a few meters away from the school building when he was suddenly pushed from behind, falling hard on his face with a good smack.

Truman was lifting himself up when a great force was brought to his back, forcing him downwards.

"What's wrong, Earthworm? I thought you liked the ground." A voice said with mockery. It was Eric Pathleton, one of Truman's classmates. Eric was a total hot-head with a short fuse. Anything made him mad, and the only thing that made him happy was hurting others, which was easy, since he was very strong for someone his age.

"Yeah, Bug-lover, we thought you liked the ground." This snot-filled voice came from Eric's friend, Joshua Malinca. Joshua was like a parrot who only copied what people already said. Joshua did not think for himself; he was always told what to do by others, which made him a complete tool.

Truman lifted his face up to see another one of Eric's friends, Paul Huffton, his bright green eyes wide with pride, as if he was the one who took Truman down. Paul Huffton was the brains of the trio. Paul was very quiet; however, he was the worst of the trio. He had a plan for each day on how to make Truman's day miserable. When Truman thinks that he outsmarted Paul, it turns out Paul had already planned for it. Worst of all, Paul doesn't like to get his hands dirty. Sounds great? Actually, no. Because of this, Paul was never caught. In everyone else's mind, Paul was a complete angel, and because of this, he was trusted with tasks and secrets.

All three of these boys together made, what Truman liked to call, "a bunch of disgusting snakes". Truman _really_ had to work on his word-play. No wonder he was failing English.

"Come on, Earthworm, eat the dirt to escape." Eric sneered.

"Yeah, Bug-lover, eat the dirt!" sneered Joshua.

"What's goin' on here?" an unfamiliar voice called out, a girl's voice. The voice had a slight southern accent to it and sounded like that the owner of the voice was ten, or maybe more towards Truman's age.

At the sudden sound of the girl's voice, Eric took his foot off of Truman. "We were only helping him achieve his one and only calling in life." Eric teased.

"Yeah, his one and only calling." Repeated Joshua. Joshua furrowed his eye brows in confusion. He leaned toward Eric and whispered, "It's eating dirt, right?"

"Come on guys, this isn't funny." The girl said, separating Eric and his friends away from Truman, who was still lying on the dirt floor.

Eric looked as if he was about to say an insult, but then he looked at Paul who must have given him an unspoken order, because when Eric looked back at the girl, Eric's expression changed from anger to irritation.

"Whatever, _girly_. Come on guys, no need to waste our energy on a stupid _girl_ anyway."

And with that, the three sprinted away with Joshua laughing at Eric's joke.

"You okay?" Said the girl, helping Truman to his feet.

Truman, keeping his gaze toward the ground, quietly said, "Yeah. I've gone through worse."

"Here, let me have a look." The girl insisted, lifting up Truman's chin.

"No." Truman said, moving his head away. "I don't think that a _girl_ would know what to do."

The girl gave a heave of a breath, obviously insulted at Truman's words. "Excuuuuuuse me, I'll have _you_ know that my father is a doctor in the medical field and has taught me some things here and there.

"Now then, let me have a look." The girl lifted Truman's chin until his face was facing hers. "Hm. You have long hair for a boy." She said. The girl moved Truman's hair out of his eyes until she could fully see Truman's brown eyes.

Truman saw the face of his rescuer for the first time. The girl had blue eyes and her skin had some tan going on. She wore a faded blue dress and had a matching bow in her blond hair, giving it a pony-tail.

The girl checked all around Truman's face for any sign of anything serious. "Hmmm. It's a bit red, but I think you're okay." The girl gave Truman a warm smile.

"Thanks." Truman said, giving the girl a little smile of his own. "My name is Truman. Truman Igebor." Truman said, holding his hand out at her.

The girl took his hand in a handshake and said, "My name is Molly. Molly Hatch."

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1935, Western U.S.A:

Oogie waited in a farm's corn field at night, waiting for the farmer to return home. Oogie wished that he did not have to wait for long. His body was killing him, quite literally.

His skin felt like he was on fire, like someone decided to light a fire where Oogie stood. His eyes itched too. So - so badly. He wanted to rub them, but he knew that if he did, his eyes would give out faster than they already were. The left eye was already bad before, but it was so much worse.

Oogie heard an automobile pull up to the farmhouse. Oogie crouched lower in the corn field, not wanting to get spotted.

The man stepped outside of his vehicle and started to walk toward the farmhouse.

Oogie slowly walked crouched down, holding an axe in his right hand.

The farmer was in the process of unlocking the door, no doubt after a long day of hard work. Oogie got closer and closer to the farmer, still fiddling with his keys. Oogie got right behind the man, slowly straightening his back and raising his axe high above his head.

Oogie's bright green eyes were itching so badly. _Time to get new ones_, he thought, bringing down his axe on the farmer's head.

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1920, U.S.A.:

Truman completely despised Eric, and Joshua, and Paul, _and_ Molly. He hated them all before, but now he _completely despised them_. Somehow, some way, he will have revenge.

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April 1914, Western U.S.A.:

Truman walked home after school after being pushed around by Eric and the rest. But Truman walked with what he didn't have in a long time: a smile. A _true_ smile. A small one, but a smile no doubt.

Truman had hopes that he and Molly will be great friends until the day they die.

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**A/N: Noticed anything? I'll give you a hint: the title of this chapter. **

**In this chapter you read a glimpse of Truman's teen-years. Not looking good, I'm afraid. This story makes you wonder what events occurred that could do this to him.**

**Please review what you think what event occurred that changed him.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: The reason why I was gone for so long is because I've helped out my fellow FanFictionist, Dawn walker wolf, with his story, "Project: Assassin" by sending him new characters and story ideas. "Project: Assassin" is an Alpha and Omega anthropomorphic Sci-fi, Horror, Romance. Please support him and stay awesome.**

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**Chapter Four: Moving**

April 9th, 11PM, 1936, Northeastern U.S.A:

Oogie was desperate. His condition kept getting worse and worse. His body felt like it was on fire, like someone burnt him with cigarettes all over his body. Walking became harder for him; heck, he didn't call it walking anymore, but limping. His breathing became deeper and more ragged. His head felt like it would split in two at any second. Every time he replaced his organs, he had to get new ones faster than the last. Oogie had no choice but to put even more stitches on his body or risk falling apart. _That's_ how desperate he was for new organs.

Oogie couldn't have searched in his usual spot; the people there had become aware of multiple deaths in their area; which means more security in the area, which means less of a success to Oogie Boogie. Oogie had no choice but to scavenge elsewhere. Somewhere far away. Somewhere that doesn't have any security whatsoever for the majority. Lucky for Oogie that the country's in a great depression. So he went northeast to prey on the saps who are barely making a living _without_ Oogie being around. So, here he was, right outside of a high-populated city somewhere in the Northeast, but before Oogie could enter, he had to replace his torn-up clothes. boogie decided on searching in a filthy dumpster that was just far enough away from the city. Inside the dumpster, Oogie found light blue jeans, black shoes, and some sort of white sweatshirt with a hood-like thing attached to it. Oogie wrapped his axe with his old clothes, and put it right behind the dumpster; hopefully nobody would see it and take it.

And so, Oogie entered the city. The name of the city, he didn't care. The city was despicable. The noise and the lights were so unbearable. At least it was night when it was cool and the sun wasn't there to torment his hazel eyes. But nothing could help his aching legs.

The people who walked by him were fools. The businessmen were fools for believing that they would actually achieve anything in life; wealth can't go with the dead. The beggars were fools for begging instead of just simply taking. They were all fools for thinking that life would go on; especially with a boogieman among them, but they were fools and moved right past the grim reaper. Fools, do they even want to realize the truth?

Oogie limped down the city's sidewalk, each step burned. Oogie stumbled, catching himself with his arms before he could hit the cement sidewalk, but his weak arms gave way a second later; gravity took complete hold of Oogie. He tried again, using what little force he still had in his arms. But then, Oogie noticed dark red patches soaking all over his sleeves and chest. His nose started to bleed profusely, the dark red blood dropping to the ground. With this realization, Oogie's adrenaline gave him enough energy to push himself off of the ground and bounded forward looking for a place to rest in private before anyone could acknowledge his blood.

Pushing away those who got in his way, Oogie spotted a dark alleyway and went inside. Deep in the alleyway, he rested his back against the brick building, taking deep and ragged breaths.

"Even this far in an alley, the city's noise is _still_ loud." Oogie complained under his breath.

"Hey, empty out ya pockets, ya hear?" a groggy voice from deeper inside the alley threatened.

Oogie looked deeper inside of the alleyway and saw a guy that appeared to be nineteen holding a knife menacingly in Oogie's direction. The nineteen-year-old looked completely calm, which Oogie presumed he had done this before. The teen had long, messy dark blond hair, bags under his eyelids, and had dark brown eyes. He had torn-up black jeans and was wearing the same type of sweatshirt thing Oogie was wearing but the teen's was dark gray.

"You... dare... threaten... me?" Oogie said between threats. Oogie tried to make it sound threatening, but that was hard to do in his current condition.

"Come on man, it's nothin' personal, it's just tha' I need ta' suhvive tuh, y'know. So just empty ya pockets an' I will beh on meh marry way, ya dig?"

"Your... accent's... annoying... me."

The hooded teen saw that the man's white hoodie was covered in blood, especially his sleeves. "Whoa man, ya drippin' all ovah ya threads and on ta tha floor." The hooded teen said with wide eyes.

"So... as you could... see, I am currently... too weak to... 'empty out my pockets'."

"It don't concern meh. I could just do it mehself, thank ya." The hooded teen moved slowly closer to Oogie to see if he was actually hurt. After a few seconds of Oogie not moving, the nineteen-year-old proceeded to move to Oogie at a normal pace. The hooded teen started to search the bleeding man's pockets with his left hand while remaining to point the knife in his right hand towards the bleeding man, when all of a sudden, the bleeding man grabbed the teen's left arm with a death grip.

"Whoa!" The hooded teen yelled. "Dude, let meh go!" Without thinking, the hooded teen thrust the knife forward, stabbing Oogie deep in the chest.

Oogie stopped moving completely, shocked at what just happened. Oogie let go of the hooded teen and looked at the knife in his chest as bright red blood spread on his jacket from the knife wound. "Oh man." The hooded teen said covering his mouth with his hands, horrified by what he had done. "Oh man. Oh man. Oh man. Ohhh maaaan. I am soh sorry, man. I am soh soh sorry, man."

Oogie continued to stare at the knife with wide eyes. He grabbed the hilt of the knife and instead of pulling it out, Oogie started to slowly move the knife across his chest, cutting more of his chest, staining his white jacket in fresh blood. Once the cut was an inch long, bumps appeared from the wound started to move around under Oogie's jacket. One of the bumps came out of the hoodie's cut. The teen saw what exactly the bump was: it was a cockroach, followed by a spider, then a beetle, then so many more insects poured out of Oogie's flesh.

The hooded teen couldn't yell, couldn't make a sound, he could only stare in shock at what he was witnessing. This man was cutting himself and insects were crawling out of him!

Oogie tore himself with the blood-soaked knife, leaving a trail of blood in its path, until it reached his side. He pulled the blooded knife out of himself, and pointed it towards the hooded teen. The teen looked into this monster's eyes and saw that in Oogie's condition, slicing himself up took so much energy, his eyes started to bleed; making the monster that more menacing looking.

With two wide eyes dripping blood into Oogie's wide grinning mouth, he said, "I needed new parts anyway."

If the people walking past the alley listened, they could have heard a scream. If the people walking past the alley just walked a simple few feet into the alley itself, they could have seen the blood-soaked walls. If the people walking past the alley simply stopped in front of the alley, they could have prevented something. But they didn't. The people only moved on by.

And _that_ is the awful truth.

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October 16th, 1915, Western U.S.A.:

Two children, a boy and a girl, sat next to each other on a hill. There, the two kids could see miles of land. It wasn't much, just a bunch of dirt roads, unwanted shrubbery, that sort of stuff. But the two kids didn't care at all. All they saw was a world waiting to be explored.

The girl had on a white dress with a matching bow in her hair and a matching pair of shoes, while the boy wore dark gray pants with his white, long-sleeved shirt and had dirty, torn up shoes that looked like it once used to be green.

"Y'know, All Hollow's Eve is comin' up." The young girl, Molly, said.

The boy, Truman, made a little chuckle.

"What? What's so funny?" questioned Molly.

"The way you said it. Nobody says All Hollow's Eve anymore. They say Halloween."

"Yeah. It does have a better sound to it than All Hollow's Eve." Molly gave a soft laugh of her own. "So anyway, _Halloween's_ comin' up, y'know. So, what are you goin' to wear?"

"No clue. I don't have anything to make a costume out of, so why bother?"

"Well, for one thing, it's fun to dress up. You can become anythin' you want for an entire day. Isn't that excitin' enough, Truman?"

"I guess. But I still don't have anything to make a costume."

"Hmm." Molly thought for a bit, putting her hand on her chin in concentration. "Ooo!" Molly exclaimed with a smile. "I know, _I'll_ make a costume for you!"

"You will?" Truman said with a smile.

"Of course. I'll get to it as soon as I can. I'll give it to you..." Molly suddenly stopped speaking, her expression no longer happy, but showing sadness. "Oh." She said quietly, wrapping her arms around her knees. "That's right."

"What? What's wrong?" Truman said with concern.

"I'm goin' away."

"What?!" Truman exclaimed.

Molly kept her knees close to her face as she spoke in a saddened voice, "It's the Leo M. Frank case. Ever since Leo Frank was lynched, my dad..." with a big sigh, Molly looked at Truman. "My father's Jewish, and he fears for me and my mother. He's saying that if we stay here, we'll eventually be killed. So my family is goin' somewhere north."

Truman didn't know what to say. She was going away? All because her father thinks that what happened to this _one_ guy could happen to them? It was stupid.

"...when?" Was all Truman could muster.

"I dunno." Molly said with gloom.

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**A/N: Yes, the hooded teen is _supposed _to be hard to understand. And yes, they did have hoodies in 1936.**

**Reviews are appreciated. Thanks.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N's: Sorry fellow friends and readers that it took me so long to make this chapter, it's just with a College class I'm taking in High school it's taking a lot of my time. I guess it's a good thing that the teacher and I are personal friends.**

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**Chapter Five: Change**

March, 1936, Halloween Town:

Oogie's balance was fading from him. He stumbled on the cold, hard cavern floor, finally balancing himself by sticking his arm out to the wall.

Oogie was dying.

"You are not well, Oogie." said the familiar high-pitched voice.

"I _am_ well!" yelled Oogie at the voice. "I am better than well. In fact, I am so well, I have never felt better!"

"If that is true, than why is your blood covering the wall?"

Oogie looked to his hand on the wall and it was pouring out blood. Oogie quickly put his hand in his shirt. "There is _nothing_ wrong with me!" declared Oogie.

"No matter what you do, no matter how many people you kill, no matter how many organs you take, it is still not enough."

"Shut up!"

"You are getting weaker and weaker."

"Not true!"

"You are _dying_, Oogie Boogie."

"I said, SHUT UP!"

"Or WHAT?" boomed the voice.

Just then, Oogie's bleeding arm started to burn like somebody lit his arm on fire. Oogie yelp in pain, crouching down as the pain intensified. Insects started to pour out of Oogie's bleeding arm. Oogie tried to stop them by death-gripping his arm, but it didn't seem to help. Oogie's arm started to shriveled up as more and more insects poured out of him, until his arm was only bones and shriveled up flesh. "Aaahhhhhhh!" screamed Oogie.

"Without me you are _nothing! _Remember that, Oogie." boomed the voice. After the voice was finished talking, the insects started climb back in Oogie's arm, restoring the arm to what it once was.

"One of these days," Oogie said in a soft menacing voice without showing any fear, "I will no longer need you."

"But until that day," started the voice, "you need new organs."

* * *

October 29th, 1915, Western U.S.A.:

"It's just a little game of Faro." Explained Paul Huffton, holding a deck of cards.

Not long after school was over, Truman was walking home from school when Paul, Eric, and Joshua pulled him to the side of the dirt road, sat him down, and Paul offered to play a game of Faro.

Paul proceeded to explain, in a voice that sounded like it came from a friend. "Truman, I bet you're wondering why we offered to play this game with you. The answer is simple: we _want_ you to play with us."

_Liar._ Thought Truman, but dared not say it, for Eric and Joshua were standing on each side of him, and Truman was scared that if he said something wrong, they would beat him up.

"It's simple," continued Paul, "you win, then no harm comes to you."

"But if _we_ win," sneered Eric, gesturing to Paul and Joshua, "we get to beat you up."

"Yeah, we beat you up." sneered Joshua.

_And if I refuse they beat me up_. Thought Truman. _We're too far from any houses for someone to notice us, so I better not refuse._

So Truman played the game. Odds were against Truman. Three against one was unfair; Truman knew this, so he also made it unfair: he cheated. In the end, Truman won.

"You cheated!" yelled Eric right before he punched Truman in the face. The force from Eric's punch knocked Truman on his back. "Admit it!"

"Yeah, admit it!" said Joshua.

Paul got over Truman and grabbed Truman's shoulders and put all his weight into pinning Truman down.

"Joshua, help me pin down Truman." Paul ordered. "We pin him down so Eric can hurt him more successfully."

Truman was scared. They were going to beat him up _again_ unless he did something _now_! While Paul was distracted on Joshua, Truman felt around on the ground with his hands for anything that could help. Truman's right hand felt something warm and hard with rough edges. A rock! Truman grabbed the rock and using all of his might, banged it against Paul's skull. Paul fell sideways with a scream and a hard thud, holding his left eye in pain.

Truman leapt to his feet and began to run. But Joshua soon tackled Truman to the ground.

"How dare you!" Yelled Eric as he crouched over Truman, waiting for Joshua to move over so he can have the first punch. He did. The punch to the back of Truman's head made him feel fuzzy.

"You'll pay for that!" screamed Paul as he continued to cover his left eye. "You'll pay for what you did to my eye!"

"Yeah, pay!" said Joshua, still holding Truman.

Joshua turned Truman over so he faced upward.

Paul put his face right next to Truman and smirked. "Let's play a game. A _different_ game." Sneered Paul, his words dripping with venom. Paul pulled out two big, red dice from his pocket. "A game you can't win. The rules are simple: the number I roll is how many times you get punched and kicked by each of us. We start from your head and continue down." Paul held up the dice and said with a loud voice, "First round!" and rolled.

* * *

October 31st , 10:30 P.M., 1918, Western U.S.A.:

Truman laid on his side with tears running down his cheek. The pain—oh how the pain still hurt him. Eric, Joshua and Paul decided to give Truman a "lesson" for Halloween. Truman recalled the punch to the nose, the kick in the ribs, the pulling on his hair, everything. And when they were done they dragged Truman to a cemetery and told him that he was, "Finally with the right crowd," and left Truman.

So, there he was, an eleven-year-old boy, in a cemetery, curled up in a ball with bruises and cuts all over his body on Halloween night, wearing a dark gray mask Joshua forced on Truman's head. The dark gray mask covered Truman's entire head, had holes for eyes and mouth, and what kept the mask on was a thin metal that was so tightly wrapped around the boy's neck, Truman had difficulty breathing.

On the side of the mask's mouth-hole was a dark red patch: Truman's blood. Tears ran down his face. His clothes were filthy from the hard dirt. His body was cold. So, so cold.

_Why?_ Thought Truman. _Why must I live? Why?_ Truman had truly given up on the world; given up on life. What was the point in going on if people like Eric, Joshua, and Paul were there to bring good people like Truman back down?

"You are sad." Said a high-pitched, hushed voice. This made Truman sit-up and start looking around. Who was that? Did Paul, Eric and Joshua come back for more? "You are sad." The voice said again.

Truman was afraid. He did not recognize the voice. Was it a voice of a helper or someone wanting to cause Truman even more harm? Maybe it was just the wind. It resembled the wind. No. It was definitely a voice. Truman continued to scan his surroundings, his eyes looking left and right. His eyes shifted like a mad man's, his breath seeable in the cold night.

"You are sad." The voice said yet again. The voice couldn't have been Paul's, nor Eric's, nor Joshua's, it was way too high-pitched.

"Who's there?!" yelled Truman. He swiveled his head left and right, trying to see a glimpse of whoever was pulling this mean joke. "This isn't funny!"

"I can make you happy." persisted the voice. "I can make all the pain go away."

Truman wanted that. Truman _really_ wanted that. But who was talking to him? And from where?

"I can make you strong. I can make you powerful. I can help you have _revenge_."

Now the voice truly had Truman's attention. Truman thought about what the voice had said. Can this voice actually give him all that? Truman wanted to find out if what the voice was saying was actually true.

"Okay." confidently said Truman. "Okay. Just tell me what to do."

Behind Truman, a large cement grave with an angel holding a book, opened up with a loud grind. "Go inside." said the voice. Truman slowly got up from where he was and slowly walked toward the tomb. Once Truman was standing in front of the grave, Truman looked inside. In the grave was a cement staircase leading down into pitch darkness. Truman couldn't see anything else. He didn't know what was down there. "Go inside, and I will grant you your wish." persisted the voice. Truman took a deep breath and entered the grave. Once inside, the grave shut itself.

_No turning back._ thought Truman.

* * *

**A/N's: Man, this took me a while! ****Hey, while I was moving boxes for my grandmother I found out that I am related to George Gipp, A.K.A., "The Gipper". Cool, huh?**

**This one is dedicated to DodgerNYC, Lennyette, MissMooToYou, Jokermask18, athenaholmes1993, thecrazyblackcat, and Dawn walker wolf. You are all awesome!**

**Reviews are appreciated. Thanks.**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I have been through a lot since I last updated.**

* * *

**Chapter Six: Truth**

April 10th, 10AM, 1936, Northeastern city USA:

"—200 inch mirror will arrive in Pasadena, California. Also in today's news: Steven Hummingway, a nineteen year-old male, has been reported missing. He was last seen leaving his house two days ago after talking to his mother. Ms. Hummingway stated, and I quote, 'Before he left, we talked about our financial problems. I said that I didn't know what to do. I cried and he put me in his arms to comfort me. Soon after I calmed down, he told me that he was leaving to go get some money.' Steven Humminway is 5' 6" tall, has pale skin, dark blond hair, dark brown eyes, and was last seen wearing a dark gray hoodie and torn-up black jeans. If you have any information—"

On top of a roof was a filled big, black bag. On top of the same roof was a big, bald man with dark brown eyes and had scars all over his body. The man wore a filthy, dark gray hoodie that was too small for him and light blue jeans; which, not too long ago, received patches of red marks. He found the jeans in a dumpster outside of the city; the hoodie... he got it in an alley. The man is known as Oogie Boogie, and inside of the black bag was the... "donor" of the hoodie. The donor was _very_ generous, for he gave away a _lot_ more than he thought he would.

"There. Finally done." said Oogie as he finished stitching himself up. "Now," Oogie turned his attention to the bag, "the only problem left is what to do with you."

"—'On Your Toes' will premiere in New York City tomorrow. Tickets are… what? It appears we have urgent news to report. ...Uhu. A woman was rummaging through a dumpster, hoping to find a shoe to wear, but instead found a black bag filled with body parts. If anyone has any more information about this, please—"

Oogie walked out of the city. That's it. He went in, got what he wanted, then just walked out without anyone stopping him. The awful truth is: the bad does not always get punished; instead, it is usually the good that gets punished more. If the truth hurts, than no other truth hurts more than that one.

* * *

January 1914, Western USA:

"Today, we have a new student."

_Who cares,_ thought Truman, _Who cares about a new student? Who cares about _life_? Life is worthless_. Truman was in school that day, sitting in his designated chair in the far right in the third row. His spot was one of the hardest spots to get to—he had to walk up the incline and basically climb over others to get there—but on Truman's right was a window, so Truman really didn't care. The window was too high to see the ground, but Truman could still see the sky. _Just five more years of this and I'll be twelve, and I will finally get out of here. _Thought Truman.

"His name is Michelangelo Alexander Huffton. You will all politely say hello to him." The teacher gestured to the new kid who was standing in front of him.

After the class's lifeless hello, the new kid sat in the seat next to Truman's. _Why me?_ Thought Truman.

"Take out your slates from your desk's lids and write down, 'America, the land of the free' in cursive." The whole class took out their slates and started to write down on it. Truman, however, was drawing a spider on his slate.

As he was drawing, Truman noticed that the new kid kept looking at Truman's drawing. "What?" muttered Truman in annoyance. The kid kept staring at Truman's drawing. "What? What do you want?"

"Arachnid."

"What?" Truman didn't know what the word, arachnid, meant.

"Arachnid. Its what spiders are. Spiders are anthropods in the subphylum Chelicerata group. The word, arachnid, derives from aráchnē, an ancient Greek word which translates to 'spider'. But arachnids aren't all spiders; they are also scorpions, ticks, solifuges, and the such."

"Huh. I did not know that."

"You will be surprised how stupid people can be." Michelangelo said with a small smirk.

"Trust me, I know what it's like." Truman said, giving a little smile of his own. "My name is Truman."

"You can call me Paul. It's my nickname."

A few days after that day, Paul was teaching Truman by the school's roadside how to gamble. Paul taught Truman that before he rolls the dice he should always pick the number seven. The two played for a long time. For a while, it seemed like Truman would win, but he rolled a two, and lost the game.

"That is called 'snake eyes'." Explained Paul. "The reason why it is called that is because the pair of pips—that is the dots on the dice—resembles a pair of eyes, which is appended to the term 'snake' because snakes symbolize treachery and betrayal. The reason why the snake represents treachery is because in the bible, the devil, Satan, took control of a snake which persuaded Eve to take of the forbidden fr—"

"Dude, nobody asked."

"Sorry, my parents constantly give me lessons on everything imaginable."

"That must be terrible. I don't know what I would do if I had to go through that."

"I don't know about the probability about you, but what I did was give myself a nickname that doesn't give the first impression, 'smart aleck'."

"No offense man, but you kind of do act like it."

"It is the way I am nurtured. I realized a long time ago that I talked differently than the other kids my age. That is why I usually stay silent."

"So... you're afraid of showing your difference?"

"Correct." Truman and Paul stayed silent for a moment. "What about you?" Asked Paul. "What is your story like?"

It didn't take long for Truman to answer. "My life is crap. My mother is a drunk piece of crap who can't stay still with relationships and doesn't give a crap about her own son; people are crap; my house is crap; my bed is crap; my life is crap; crapcrapcrap!"

Paul waited for Truman to continue, but soon found out that he was done. "That is it? That is all you have to say?" Asked Paul.

"Yeah pretty much."

Paul took a deep breath in then let it out slowly. "Ich dachte, er war schlauer."

"What?" Asked Truman.

"Oh, it's German. My parents taught me German, Spanish, Latin, Japanese, Mandarin, Hindi, et cetera."

"Why? I mean, I know that the more you know, the safer you are; but, don't you think that it's a little much?"

Paul looked down at the ground, not wanting to look Truman in the eyes, for this is a subject that he's been constantly reminded of by his parents. They always told him just do what they say, but Paul... "Yeah." Paul said in a hushed voice. "Yeah, I believe so. But, I don't know what the truth is anymore. _Is_ it too much? I simply do not know." Silence has once again swept over the two. Paul, wanting to break the silence, said, "So... would you like to play another round?"

* * *

October 31st, 10:40 PM, 1918, Grave's Tunnel:

Truman ventured down into the grave, having no idea where the staircase was taking him, but after what had happened in the cemetery, Truman didn't care where the staircase went. The voice said he could have revenge, and Truman went for it.

Truman had forgotten that he was still wearing the dark gray mask, but given everything that he just been through, one cannot blame him for forgetting.

After a while of walking down, Truman found himself walking up. _That's strange._ Thought Truman. _Why is it going up?_ Truman saw that the way going up was a lot shorter than the way going down, for he soon saw a faint light up above. _What's out there?_

When Truman walked out, he was mesmerized by what he saw: sharp, black stones in the shape of triangles poking out of a hard, black ground. Truman turned around to look at what he exited from. It was a thing that looked like a grave, but it had an opening in the front. And on top was some kind of a monster with thin limbs, sharp claws, and looked like it was about to pounce on Truman. _Where am I?_

"Follow my voice." said the wind-like voice. Truman looked in the direction of where he heard the voice, and saw a big metal gate. When seeing the gate, Truman found himself unable to move. If there's a gate, than surely there are people here. But were the people bad? Did he make the right decision on trusting this voice? "Follow my voice." The voice said again, urging Truman. Truman came this far, so he should finish what he started. Truman took a deep breath, then began to follow the sound of the wind-like voice.

Truman found himself walking in a dark forest with no leaves on the trees. The trees sent chills down Truman spine. Not only that, but Truman noticed that the entire time Truman followed the sound of the voice, he did not see any sign of life whatsoever. No people; no animals; no plants. Did anyone even live there? Where was he? Who or what was the voice? Truman had so many questions, but he still ventured farther into the unknown land.

"Here." said the voice. Truman stopped walking, finding himself on the edge of a deep, wide, round hole in the ground with a very tall tree sticking out in the middle.

"Where am I?" asked Truman.

"Home." suddenly, a strong wind came out of nowhere from behind Truman. Truman turned around in fright, his arms trying to stop the wind from hitting his face. Slowly, Truman's body was edging backwards toward the deep hole. Truman dug his feet into the hard ground as best he could, but to no use. Truman fell into the deep, dark hole.

Of course! The voice didn't want to help him! It wanted to _kill_ him! Or perhaps, this is what the voice meant when it said that it wanted to help him. The truth still stood: Truman _did_ wanted to die, after all.

Truman hit the hard ground with a sickening crunch. He laid there, lifeless. His body broken and bleeding. A pool of blood quickly formed around his corpse.

Out of the darkness, a wind-like voice simply said, "Live." Suddenly, insects started to come out of the ground and went towards the body of Truman Bobi Igebor. The insects got to the body, then proceeded to enter the corpse's wounds; filling Truman's body with insects.

"Soon," said the voice, "_Very_ soon."

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**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to DodgerNYC, Lennyette, MissMooToYou, Jokermask18, DestinyHolmes1993, HimClaudeFaciler, and LaReinaCalabaza. Thank you all for putting up with my very slow progression!**

**1\. Paul said, in English, "I thought he was smarter."**

**2\. I also have a poll on my profile. The poll is about what I should focus on writing next. If you may be so kind as to vote, that would be much appreciated.**

**Please review, dear reader.**


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